Hamish
by OliviaK94
Summary: It has been 12 years since Sherlock left his family of John, his husband, and son, Hamish. Hamish cannot deal with the absence of his father. He has no one to turn to when he misses him the most. Certainly not his distraught father, John, at the death of his husband. This story is not set in any certain era. I mainly want to get feedback from other Johnlock shippers like myself. 3


Hamish

"My father was real!"  
"Your father was a lier and a fake!" yelled Pan.

This was a typical day for me; yelling at the insolent little boy that was Moriarty's atrocious offspring. His words stung like knives in my heart, but I dared not show it on my face or in my words.  
"My father was a brilliant, brilliant man!" I threw back at him before I pounced on him.  
I slammed my locker and dropped my nap sack as I flung at Pan. I knocked him to the ground and towered over him, pinning him down with my bony knees. I punched at his face until my knuckles were covered in either his blood or mine, which didn't take long. He sneaked a punch at my face and I toppled backwards.  
The brawl continued until the headmaster came down the hall, yelling my name for everyone to hear and start taking pictures on their smartphones.  
"Hamish!" yelled Mrs. Doyle.  
Mrs. Doyle grabbed me by the ear and clamped down hard. I groaned from the pain, and from the dissatisfaction that once again, Pan got away with insulting my father.  
My father came shortly after, like always, to pick me up and witness my sentencing.  
"One week!" John roared.  
My father slammed the apartment door behind me.  
"An entire week, Hamish!" he bellowed at me up the stairs. "This is becoming completely unacceptable!"  
"He was telling lies about my father again, dad," I told John.  
I turned around on the steps to face him with tears welling in my eyes.  
"Pan has been spoon fed these lies about my father, your husband!"  
"Keep in mind, Hamish, that he has lost a father, too," said John in a more understanding voice.  
I scoffed loudly up the last flight of stairs, pounding my loafers into the old wood steps.  
"You defend him like HE is the victim!" I screamed at my father as we walked into the musty flat.  
"Mrs. Doyle said you were the one to throw the first punch," clarified John.  
John wearily shut the front door with one hand, the other gripping at his cane.  
My father resorted to using the cane he once used many years prior. He felt a lot weaker without his husband by his side.  
I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and slumped down on a bar stool beside the island in the middle of the kitchen. I glanced at the fridge again as John bandaged up my hand while I put the ice on my bruised cheekbone. I remembered the many strange and wonderful artifacts my father kept in that fridge; eyeballs and severed hands, severed feet and individual toes. It was gruesome yet intriguing for a curious five-year-old boy.  
It didn't happen often, but when it did, my father was there for me, no matter the suspension or injuries. I shed a few tears until I sniffled under my breath. John noticed. He wrapped he short arms around my neck in a warm embrace. I was like John in that way; very emotional for a guy. However, I got my fathers height and jet black hair.  
"Sherlock was a genius of a human being," consoled John into my hair. "You know that and I know that. You don't need to prove it to anybody else."  
John unwrapped his sweatered arms from around me and placed his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him slightly and that moment brought back one certain memory of my fathers that I had missed ever so much.

I raked at my fathers jumper in excitement. Some of my unkept nails caught on his jumper. John grabbed my other hand tightly and pulled me around to his other side. I was in between him and my father now. I reached up to take ahold of Sherlock's hand, but he flew off in front of us. A normal five-year-old boy would have screamed and kicked until he got his fathers attention, but I knew Sherlock was going to do important work and had no time to coddle me. That is why I had John. He was the more compassionate one of the odd pair.  
I ran after Sherlock and halted behind him when stopped in his quest to get inside the house.  
Some woman told my father he could not enter the crime scene. I peeked out from behind my father's black trench coat to see the many police cars and many flashing lights that intrigued a young mind like my own. I smiled at the lady and chuckled softly.  
Sherlock noticed and put a hand on my back and pushed me in front of him. He placed two long, skinny fingers over my tiny shoulders.  
Another man came out just then and ushered us into the decreped house. I bounded up the stairs in front of my fathers and behind the man that granted us access to the crime scene.  
"Keep the boy away from the body," said the man as he left my fathers to investigate. It was more like Sherlock investigating while John looked on with amazement.  
I wanted to see the body. I creeped under the yellow crime scene paper that blocked the door. Sherlock followed with John at his heels.  
I didn't care for the body that much, I just wanted see my father in action; watch his brilliant mind at work.  
"Hamish, get back here," whispered John from the door.  
I looked at Sherlock with big eyes. He normally would not have picked up on such a trivial feeling as wonderlust, but he had picked up on many of my subtle cues since he had gotten to know me.  
"Oh, let the boy stay," said Sherlock in my defense.  
I was giddy yet Sherlock did not care for my extra emotions.  
Sherlock thought at a million miles per hour and spoke like it, too. I watched in awe at the back and forth banter and crime solving that happened between my fathers.  
This was a rare, yet still incredible occasion for my father. He had solved the whole bloody case in one go.  
He was bored already.  
"Let's go for ice cream," said Sherlock as we got into a cab.  
"What flavour would you like, Hamish?" asked John.  
I got a scoop of vanilla in a cone.  
I sat on Sherlock's lap as I licked my ice cream. I got vanilla because it was plain enough that my father would sometimes indulge in a lick or two.  
John got a scoop of chocolate in a cup and sat across from us.  
My eyes became ten times there size with every delicious lick.  
My father rubbed my back gently.  
"Come here," said John with his hands outstretched over the table.  
I handed my ice cream cone to my dad and stuck my hands out for John to take. He pulled off my black gloves and stuck them in his pocket with his own.  
I looked back to see Sherlock licking the edges of my ice cream cone. A cocky smile creeped on his face. He handed the cone back to me with his leather gloved hand.  
We sat contently as a family in the small ice cream parlor. Smiles peering from all our faces.  
My father wrapped a hand around my head and pulled me closer to his face. He kissed my temple softly, hugging me in an awkward embrace. What Sherlock did not know, was that fatherhood really suited him. He wasn't distant or cold as perceived. He cared for me in his own way; loved me in his own way; showed affection on his own terms. He was the best father a boy could ask for. Especially when paired with John by his side.  
We headed home late. It was way past my bed time when my father tucked me into bed that night at one in the morning. I was already partially asleep from the cab ride home. Sherlock held me in his long arms, close to his chest.  
"I'll pop the kettle on, darling, while you put him to bed," said John.  
His voice faded as my father cradled me in arms, into the bedroom.  
Sherlock pulled my clothes off slowly as to not wake me.  
"Daddy," I spoke softly when I was all tucked in bed with my pajamas on.  
I only ever called Sherlock "daddy" when I was extremely tired.  
"Yes, Hamish?" he said in a deep voice.  
"I just wanted to say," I began. "You are a really good father."

I knew he thought of himself quite badly when trying to raise me. I wanted to reassure him that he was doing a great job so far.  
"Oh, Hamish," he sighed.  
Sherlock sat on my small bed next to me. He tucked me in with all my stuffed animals.  
"Your father and I love you very much," he replied.  
A smile came to my small lips.  
I was content and happy with my life. I was in a warm bed with two loving parents that were the happiest couple I had ever met in all my five years on this earth.  
Sherlock lent down to kiss my forehead; smoothing my hair away from my face in the process. He turned off the light on the night stand.  
"Night, Hamish," he said in the most loving voice he could muster; shutting the door behind him.

The memory was gone as fast as it came. I hugged my only father then.  
"Now go rest, son," said John.  
I dragged my bloody hand to bed.  
I dreaded going to sleep every night. I couldn't shake the memory of the day John told me my father was dead.  
I was a bright young kid with all the hopes in the world with a wonderful family to show for it.  
I was in my grammar school classroom when the principle came to my class room and pulled me away from my happy life.  
John came and got me later that night. I didn't know what had happened for a long while. No one would tell me or look me in the eyes.  
My father took me home in silence. Unknowingly, ironically, I asked John where my father was. My small mind wandered to images of him solving crimes or in his laboratory.  
"Where is daddy?" I asked John when we got out of the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street.  
"Your father..." spoke John shakily.  
I remember my father loosing his grip on reality, needing to lean against the taxi door for support.  
"Sher..." he stammered. "Sherlock, your father... Well, Hamish... Your father passed away today, my boy," he managed.  
I stayed quiet. My small mind couldn't handle such a concept. I had never known a life without my two dads being side by side.  
My father regained his balance, being strong for his defenseless son. He wrapped me in his arms, tightly. He didn't let go for a while.  
Now I don't remember crying much as a boy. Oddly enough not even on that fateful day. However, every time I relive that horrific moment in my dreams, I wake up crying, hysterically. My father only heard me a few times. I tried to stop my tears quicker each night as to not wake him.  
I pulled myself out of bed to get some dinner. Little did I know it was already eleven at night when I woke up. Dad was asleep on the couch again so I wasn't about to cook something.  
I threw on a tight light grey shirt with black jeans. I slipped into my fathers black trench coat and his thick scarf. The smell of him faded shortly after he did.  
I walked down the cold streets of London, half heartedly looking for food.  
I heard the church bells ring at the stroke of midnight. I wished myself a happy birthday, internally. I was eighteen with the weight of the world thrust upon my shoulders at the first ring of the bells.  
The last decent birthday I had, where I was truly, truly happy, was my sixth birthday. I had all a boy could ask for; a family. And that's all I wanted again.  
I treated myself to a tasteless kebab that would undoubtedly give me food poisoning. I didn't care. I didn't care about much these days. I was eighteen and what did I have to show for it? A dead father and another one who wished he was dead?  
I tried becoming like my father, once. I studied and worked hard. I cracked down on my education, but after a while, when you know that your greatest role model is gone forever, you start feeling lost.  
It was like I was always waiting for him. Waiting for him to come home one random night after solving a big case by the snap of his fingers. Even as a child I would deny it in my head that he was truly gone. I expected him to saunter in and wrap me in his big arms and tell me all the gory details of the mystery he had solved.  
I knew that John just wanted his husband back; his love. And as I grew, too, I realized that was all I wanted as well. I wanted my father back; my family.  
I found myself at the one place I never wanted to be again but always found myself at; my fathers grave.  
I used to speak to him, as if he were there with me; as if he was still alive. That dream faded along time ago. I hardly ever visited his grave anymore. It was too painful.  
I was still tired and hurting so I had trouble staying awake. I couldn't help but relive the memories of the last time I was crying in this graveyard. It was as dark as night then, too. My father was being lowered in the ground as slow as could be with only a few of his loved gathered around him. I cried all through the service and all the way home. I would relive the days of misery over and over again, to this very day. The absence in my heart was unbearable.  
I woke up screaming, as usual.  
The rain hit my face hard and cold. It stung my bruised face like freezing daggers.  
I wriggled around in the mud and sat up against the headstone. I wrapped myself tighter in the coat and tried to wipe away the the tears through the pouring rain.  
"Thought I'd find you here," a voice spoke out to me.  
I looked up through blurred vision and saw my drug dealer, Marcus. His shaggy blonde hair hid under his hoodie and out of the rain.  
"Heard you screaming from a mile off, mate," said Marcus.  
Marcus stretched out a hand for me to take. He helped me up with great strength.  
"What do you have for me tonight, Marcus?" I asked him.  
"A few pills and some weed, mate," he said as he pulled out a baggy from his left pocket.  
I slid him a fifty for a joint and two pills.  
"Later, mate," he yelled as he walked away behind me.  
I quickly lit up the joint in the rain. I ran to the nearest tree to keep the lighter going. It was cold out and getting colder. I decided to save the pills for another day.  
As I let the weed seep into my lungs, I sank down in front of the tree and stared at my fathers grave. It shown bright black in the moon light. The gold lettering just about shown bright enough for me to make out his exquisite name. I could picture my name beside his. It would read

_ Hamish Holmes Dead at 18_

I came to the realization that I didn't want to live too much longer, not without my dad. My life could not continue without him in it. It was like I had met God himself and suddenly he and all his wonder was stripped away from me in an instant.  
The weed was strong and probably laced with other substances. I hallucinated many voices and remembered so many unpleasant memories unwillingly.  
I didn't like those memories. I took the two pills, seeing as I was still lucid enough.  
The night carried on with myself in full attendance, unconsciously. Half the time I couldn't tell if the lights in front of me were car lights or simply the light from my phone. Both scared me just as much.  
I gave into the drugs completely, not caring for my safety or anyone else's.  
The blazing hot sun bored down on my bare arms. I was coming down from my high, unfortunately. I had never been alone and that high. Who knew where I was. I could have been stark naked in a ditch somewhere.  
But no, I was back at my fathers grave. I couldn't tell if I had ever moved from that spot or not.  
I tried to regain consciousness, but was too tired to do so. I fell back into the high and forgot about my troubles.  
Before I knew it, smooth leather fingers cupped my arms and lifted my dangling body into its arms. I watched myself from all angles, not able to make out the figure who held me in his arms.  
The rain hit my face, I choked on it, shocking me awake.  
I opened my eyes slowly, to find some very strong jaw lines above me.  
The steady beat of foot steps drifted me back to sleep.  
When the wriggling stopped, I was laying on a hospital gurney. I looked up again to see the one face, the only face in the universe I longed to see; my fathers.  
I didn't care if it was a hallucination, it felt real to me.  
"You're going to be okay, son," said Sherlock, looking down at me over the railing.  
I fluttered my eyelashes and lost ahold of myself.  
"Medic!" I heard him yell in that deep voice of his. He had a hint of concern in his voice.  
His foot steps faded and replaced themselves with heavier, louder ones. I lost track of the people standing over me as the darkness took over.  
They had to shock me at least three times before I came back. I didn't want to come back unless I knew my father was going to be there.  
"Dad..." I whimpered. "Dad... Dad!" I yelled and demanded as I woke up hours later in the ICU.  
"I'm right here," John said in his rough voice. He had obviously been crying.  
This was not the father I wanted right then. I needed Sherlock. I had seen him. I knew it to be true.  
I wasn't about to tell me father that, however.  
"It's going to be okay, Hamish," he reassured me. "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."  
I felt incredibly weak yet so alive. I had never had something to fight for before now.  
"An overdose?" John said in a concerned tone.  
I looked down at my feet out of shame. He took my hand in his and squeezed tightly. I knew nothing would happen to me, he would protect me, yet he was weak himself. He would help in anyways he could, yet he was fighting his own battles.  
"I'm sorry," I apologized to my father.  
John started welling up again and rubbed my hand roughly. He hushed me softly and stood over our hands for a long while.  
I fell asleep shortly, being very tired from dying and all.  
I woke up several hours later, it was nearly pitch black outside then.  
My father was slumped in a big chair, asleep beside me, with his hand draped over the railing.  
I woke up with a plan to see my father again. He was probably still watching me. Making sure I was okay.  
"Dad," I whispered with a rough voice.  
I shook John's hand. It fell off the railing and woke him up. He immediately looked behind him at me.  
"What is it, Hamish?" he asked shakily as he stood up to look at me.  
"I'm quite thirsty..." I told him softly. "And hungry."  
I needed my father to leave me alone so Sherlock would come back for me.  
"I'll go get you something from the canteen," he said as he smoothed my hand gently.  
John left the room shortly after putting his coat on sluggishly. He shut the door behind him.  
Everything was going to plan. I just had to lure my father back to me.  
I closed my eyes faintly. I held my breath subtly while slowly slipping the pulsox monitor off of my finger under the covers.  
I tried to hold my breath as long as I could while the beeping of the monitor flatlined.  
The big door slammed open. I tried my hardest to not open my eyes.  
"Hamish!" yelled my father. "Hamish!"  
Sherlock shook my shoulders hard and roughly with freezing cold hands.  
I let my breath out and coughed for dramatic affect. I managed to slip the pulsox monitor back on my finger. It beeped away to the beat of my heart. It beat fast and timidly.  
I dared myself to open my eyes quickly before he was gone.  
"You're here," I spoke in shock.  
I scanned him over and he hadn't seemed to age a single day. Unlike my father, Sherlock had seemed to be frozen in time. John, however, had many wrinkles and worry lines. He had seemed to age a lot quicker with the stress of loosing his husband.  
Sherlock looked at me with less concern than John had. He looked me over, studied me.  
"Yes," he said absentmindedly.  
"You saved me," I exclaimed.  
He didn't care about the obvious; trivial compliments like that.

I went out for my midnight walk. The bitter air stung my face. I passed my grave as usual. No flowers laid there. Hardly any flowers were left there these days. I had to convince myself that this was a good thing. John was getting over me. He was forgetting about me.  
I noticed everything, but one figure in particular. I tall boy laid at the foot of the tree beside my headstone.  
I didn't concern myself with the trivial lives of the common Londoners. However, as I got closer to him, he seemed to be lifeless. Again, none of my concern, but this particular passed out boy looked familiar. I got closer and closer and saw him without a coat on and shivering. I turned him over and noticed puke coming from his mouth. I was about to walk away and let the police deal with another one of their cities drunk, when, as I stepped back, I caught myself on a coat that was covered in puke and mud. Another insignificant factor to this boy, yet, on further examination, it appeared familiar. It was my coat.  
I looked at the boy again and saw MY mouth and jawline looking back at me. It was MY son.  
An odd sense of worry came over me. I had to help. I had to save my son. My son that I hadn't seen in years.  
"Hamish!" I yelled at the boy.  
He didn't respond. I picked him up in my arms like I had done so many years before.  
I traced a map, in my head, the quickest route to the nearest hospital.  
I ran quickly, sticking a nose in the air to rid my nostrils of the smell of puke. I had to get over it for I was saving my son.  
The bright lights of the Emergency Room lit up my destination. I ran faster through the rain and placed Hamish on a gurney. I felt the need to reassure him.  
"You're going to be okay, son," I told him as his eyes shut from the bright lights.  
I caressed his wrist softly and pressed down. His pulse was fading.  
I looked over my full grown son again. He had my stark black hair in soft ringlets that laid wet on the bed. He had my tall, slim physique as well. I could only imagine he had his fathers caring demeanor that I missed so very much.  
I snapped out of my fascination with my son and called for a medic before I slipped out of the bright lights and back into the rain.  
I followed my son through the windows of the hospital while standing on the roof of the building across from the hospital. He was finally placed in the ICU, in a room that I could peer through.  
When Hamish was placed in the second floor I rushed down to the second floor of the abandoned building I was in to get a better look on him.  
By the time I reached the correct window to see him clearly, John was with him. I stepped back dared not look at him and his sorrow. I had tortured myself enough in the beginning years after I lost him.  
I peered through the window to see what John would do. I had to see him, at least once.  
John bent down over our son and held Hamish's hand in his. His eyes were sunken in and red with tears. He looked old and haggard. His face was tired and full of sadness.

John stayed with our son for several hours. I stood at the window to keep an eye on them. I knew I would have to go and never see them again once the sun rose, but it was nice to see them together again.

Hamish called out for John but looked disappointed when he went to his son's bedside. He wanted me.

Hamish fell back asleep, queuing me to leave.

I found myself drawn to the hospital as I walked passed to head home. I could not help myself from going to check on my son, one last time.

I was fortunate enough to see, but not be seen by John, when he left Hamish's room. I walked down the fluorescently lit hallway, about a hundred yards away from John.

As I grew closer and closer to my son's room, I heard a loud, flat beeping noise. It grew louder and louder. I ran as fast as my long legs would carry me. I slammed open the door to find my son, flatlined on the bed.

"Hamish!" I yelled at him.

I shook his shoulders. The evidence was clear; his heart had stopped.

"Hamish!"

Hamish coughed back to life under my grasp. He looked up at me with soft, weak eyes in amazement.

"You're here," he exclaimed.

I was relieved he was alive. All I ever wanted for my boys was for them to be alive and well.

"Yes," I replied.

"You saved me," he said in a dreamy, sleepy voice.

He scanned me over and reached out for me; to see if I was real.

I stepped back as he lent forward. His face scrunched up in confusion. I did not want to re-attach myself to him again. I knew him as a little boy, and as just as emotional as it was, I wanted to keep him young and unbroken.

But, before I could even think about leaving, a large crash behind me had caught me red handed.

I spun around to find the small, tired man standing in front of me with a broken teacup at his feet.

"Get out," he said with a stern undertone.

I expected nonetheless from the man I abandoned for twelve years.

"No!" yelled Hamish in a cracked voice.

I could not take my eyes off the man I loved. It was like rereading an old book; everything about him was so predictable. I felt at ease around him; like I had so many years ago.

I turned around to get one last glimpse at the son I never saw grow up.

"Stay…" he said wimpishly.


End file.
